The Man Who Loved His Wife by Vera Caspary Page B

Don said.
    In spite of the warning, Elaine raised her head. Sunlight threw upon her face varied patterns of tree and shadow and the latticework of the pavilion. “Cindy went off to play golf with Fletcher. They’re probably staying out for lunch so I’m enjoying the working girl’s special.” She had brought a sandwich, a glass of milk, and a book to the wicker table. “How’d it go? Did you meet Mr. Carter the First?”
    â€œWhat a character!”
    â€œAny luck?”
    â€œI’m thinking over the offer.” Don’s sly wink could be interpreted in a number of ways.
    â€œWhat about money? Will they pay you well?”
    â€œI could do with more, but it’s a hell of a lot better than what that bastard in personnel offered me last month.” Don did not wish to admit that once again he had seen none of the Carters but only that bastard in the personnel office, that he had been told once more that there was a fair sort of job open, that several applicants were being considered and that Don’s original application would be reviewed. All the bastard had offered was another appointment for Monday. Adding a bonus to the lie, “It was a tense hour with the tycoon,” he said. “I could use a drink.”
    â€œHave you had lunch?”
    Elaine enjoyed serving lunch to a young man with a hearty appetite. Don enjoyed eating with her in the charming pavilion. While he told her about the house, he watched her slender hands with the coffeepot and cream pitcher. His perverse mind caught glimpses of her, rather than Cindy, in the rooms and upon the windswept decks of the new house. Elaine had many talents that his wife lacked, chief among them the ability to listen. She asked for a cigarette. He held his lighter to it long after it had caught fire. Elaine backed away from the small flame.
    â€œSorry.” Don moved off, too, stiffening slightly. “I was so busy admiring you that I didn’t notice.”
    â€œDon’t let your admiration set me on fire.”
    â€œI wish it could!”
    Both laughed away the tasteless compliment. Elaine shifted her chair so that she was not facing him directly. Presently he moved around to see her better. Never, during his days as a lawyer, had Donald Hustings pleaded with greater brilliance. Elaine’s attention excited him. Every word was cogent, every pause had meaning.
    Elaine readily understood what he wanted of her. “Do you honestly think I can get Fletcher to help you?”
    â€œWho else has such influence with him? He worships you like a goddess.”
    Her light died out. The lovely head drooped on the long stem of her neck.
    â€œPlease try, Elaine. I know he’ll listen to you. God!” Don’s fist struck the table with such force that cups leaped and saucers rattled. “A man needs a home of his own. Starting out the way I am, in a new field. A house is security. Especially out here in the West, if you don’t own your home you’re just dirt. White trash.”
    Though not quite honest, Don was completely sincere. Self-interest is a strong hypnotic. His heart was set upon possession of the house which, he believed with superstitious ardor, would finally turn his luck. No matter how heavily mortgaged, the property would be recorded in his name, adding the luster and solidity demanded of a young executive.
    His urgency restored Elaine. She saw the eager spaniel eyes, the mouth more than ever sculpted by a boyish pout, the tremor of his hands. She could not remain indifferent to the tension, the anguish, and the frankness. “I’ll try but I can’t promise a lot. Fletcher makes his own decisions. He’s a very positive person.”
    â€œBut you’ll try? Talk to him tonight.”
    â€œIt depends upon his mood.”
    â€œI’ve got to have the first thousand on Monday. Otherwise we may lose the house. Bargains like that don’t wait.”
    A bee flew